


I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still

by Patience_on_a_Monument



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Implied Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, No Dialogue, Not so much about humans, Possessive Behavior, Talk about dog death a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patience_on_a_Monument/pseuds/Patience_on_a_Monument
Summary: Years ago, the first Vicchan slipped his leash and lost his life under the wheels of a truck.Now, following a similar act of disobedience, Yuuri thinks the second Vicchan should meet the same fate.





	

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  +++MELON MELON MELON+++  
> 

Yuuri wasn't there when Vicchan died.

Yuuri knew he was fragile. He'd seen the evidence enough times to be gruesomely aware of the consequences of something pushing at his foundations, pulling the jenga pieces out. He'd waver, try and rally himself and go crashing down, a death spiral of anxiety and self-immolation. But death spirals need a partner and it was just him, spinning out of control.

He was a man of few friends by lack of skill rather than by lack of care, although those few he had he held onto dearly. He found himself on occasion admiring people like Seung-gil Lee, those that could go through life on their own with pride and trusting their personal strength. Yuuri was willing to bet good money that Lee was never going to be the type to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking from a nightmare and the sudden striking fear that none of the people around him could stand him, they were all acting to fool him, how long until the curtain fell, what if his family knew what he was like deep down, would anybody keep him around if they knew him really, because nobody knows him really what if he died without anybody really understanding him what if

Vicchan had become essential for maintaining himself, even while he was in America and the dog had become a more abstract concept seen in Skype calls and photos sent with birthday presents.

Vicchan really was his best friend, a friend that wouldn't judge thirteen-year-old Yuuri for naming him after a celebrity, wouldn't judge eighteen-year-old Yuuri for still having the walls of his room plastered with the face of his namesake (although Yuuri still judged his younger self; it had been an uncomfortable homecoming to be reminded of his younger self's blatant idolatry after he'd so carefully grown up to be more reserved with his obsession).

Vicchan was the friend who always had time, a shoulder to cry into and laughing playing Frisbee at the beach. He trusted his friends that they would offer the same, probably, but with Vicchan there was no questioning, or scheduled meet ups, just acceptance. It was refreshing and home and he could pretend panic attacks were a fable meant to scare toddlers.

He would always remember the day, the hour, the nanosecond he picked up the call. He had been consumed by preparations for the GPF, so busy and in his own head perfecting footwork that he had neglected calling home for longer than usual. He had picked up the phone, panting and tired and without checking the caller expecting Coach Celestino, and instead he had been greeted by a sobbed sigh and his mother quietly calling his name. His paranoia hit him with all the worst case scenarios in the time it took her to gather her breath and confirm one of his nightmares to be real - a dog that slipped its leash, a speeding truck, a meeting of the two resulting in a smear of red and unmoving fur. Except even his nightmares featured a more focused plot and better timing than the total collapse of his entire life that followed.

He didn't have any time to collect after he'd shattered - they were already at the practice. He had nobody to talk to - Phichit wasn't here and Coach Celestino was nice but he wasn't a friend, he was a coach. It was just him, himself and Yuuri and they got on like the Titanic and the iceberg, screaming SOS, CQD, Mayday into stormy seas and empty horizons.

He had never failed at keeping himself in check in such a spectacular fashion before. He had failed Vicchan, had failed to be there for him and was going to fail him again in the near future when he was buried. Buried and gone. Vicchan was gone. It didn't feel real, just words no pictures. Can you mourn an event that wasn't real? If he could fail his best friend, what was to stop him from failing everyone else? Of course he was going to fail them, he was a mediocre skater playing pretend at being good enough to get into the final of the Grand Prix, the playground of the real professionals. The playground and home of Viktor Nikiforov. He didn't belong here, this was all a mistake and he should have stayed in Hasetsu.

And so he proved his inner demons right and true as he always did.

He lost, badly.

It didn't matter that he made it to the final, that he had skated against Viktor. He had shown his weakness, the fragility of his mind and the utterly lacking nature of his skating that he'd spent his life covering up and shown it to the entire world. Everyone knew it now. His friends, the other competitors. Viktor. They all saw what a worthless human he was as he crumbled to pieces on the ice and then broke down in the kiss and cry. Aptly named. He could kiss his career goodbye after that.

Viktor didn't recognise him as a competitor. Maybe that was a blessing, that he had been considered such a non-threat that he was not worth the effort of remembering. At least that shame spared him the greater shame of Viktor being aware of the catastrophe that was Katsuki Yuuri. He should never have thought he would get his attention as a skater, he barely registered as a fan. One of the mindless hordes.

Time to drink, and forget the disappointed sponsors hovering with condolences. He didn't need their condolences, he needed to be in a quiet room where he could tear himself in peace and quiet where the vultures couldn't rip at the wounds.

He wasn't healed by the time the season ended, and had only compounded his failed. A compound fracture of the soul. He could only hope it would set correctly and not scar too badly.

Suddenly, Viktor appeared in his life when he was shamed and fat and just beginning to get himself back together with kind memories of his family and Yuu-chan and Takeshi. And Vicchan. Vicchan who had been an homage to both Viktor and Makkachin, who had come with his owner to help drive home the nail. Right as he was beginning to recover and come back into himself, reasserting control over his body and mind.

And Viktor had made him complete.

Yuuri hadn't made it easy, he knew that. Had let his overthinking and dearth of self-confidence convince him that there was no way that anybody, anybody at all could even look at him at all. Especially as a romantic interest, when he's still constantly surprised people seem willing to be his friend. Nobody who knew how he had burned in ignominy could look at him twice and not turn away. There's no way that Viktor - _Viktor_ \- would want him for anything. A short-term publicity boost and a distraction to occupy him while he sorted out contracts maybe. Meanwhile he benefitted from Viktor and his experience and enthusiasm, claiming his time timidly but surely.

Yuri had helped him, with jumps, with seeing the world's underestimation of him as a challenge and not eternal damnation, and helped him understand that this was all real. And Yuri had helped him to formally stake his claim on Viktor and announce it to the world, flimsy a claim as it was. He had his own program of Viktor's now, proof of effort spent on Yuuri's behalf as they tailored it to fit him as snug as the costume pulled from the past to sit snug on him. Another little piece of Viktor he could call his for a little while. While it lasted.

Time passed, and he learned the differences between the legend Viktor, always ready with a rehearsed smile that didn't reach his eyes and perfect poise, and the real Viktor, or at least the one he was beginning to believe was real. That Viktor was easy smiles with giggling eyes, slouching over tables and constantly touching Yuuri to grab his attention. He had to get used to the touches slowly as he grew used to Viktor: with slow breaths and well-worn destressing exercises when he thought it meant nothing; with slow breaths and languid touches in the dark of midnight when he thought they did mean something.

Their relationship deepened as time went on, as the casual talk and casual touches became natural, became reciprocal. Yuuri was happy to be himself around Viktor and it seemed Viktor was ecstatic to return the favour. They went to the beach, they washed each other in the onsen, they spent lazy rest days curled up on each other on the sofa in Yu-topia. They were two professionals working to better each other's careers each time they skated at the rink, and two people bettering each other every time they interacted.

He still visited Vicchan's shrine and kept it provisioned, but he feels slightly guilty about it if Makkachin is in the house. He hasn't been asked yet why his miniature poodle had been named Vicchan or what it meant, but he had a sinking feeling Viktor knew _exactly_ what it meant. There would be no prompting on Yuuri's part. He didn't want the fledgling _thing_ they had together to be crushed by reminding Viktor of his still-fading idol status, not when he was finally getting to know him outside of the public persona for magazines and photoshoots.

Vicchan was named for Viktor, but eventually Viktor picked up Vicchan's name as well. It started with Yuuri's mother, and then gradually spread around the inn like a lingering cough, unnoticed and moving between them gradually. It fit. There was symmetry there.

He struggled through the regionals bloodied and bruised but content. He was not yet ready to accept any sort of fame or fandom was due him, but maybe he could once he proved Viktor and he had put their souls on the line with their choreography. The choreography of his free skate is so close to his heart, a story shared with Viktor, that speaks of their countless hours of talking through his life, explaining his heart and mind at different points in his career, explaining his history while forging a new future around the crystallisation of his past. 

China came easier, among friends that settled easy and smelt like a breath of fresh air. The questions and probing jokes brought a little humility to the situation again, and he had missed the easy camaraderie, the easy acceptance. He loved Phichit and their chatter flowed smooth as honey, but it was different. It took a while to register, and longer to process.

And the façade of indifference the world was trying to show him was also slipping. He felt the stares from Chris and the tone of the journalists, and could imagine behind all the flashes from phones a hundred, a thousand posts, comments notes debating his adequacy, and the outrageous hubris of his claim to Viktor. But he did have a claim to stake, and they would have to deal with it, because against all the odds Viktor had chosen him above all others. He had never pressured him to stay, but he wouldn't let them try and take him away. They would just have to learn through his performances, and through the legitimacy of his skating, of his seduction and dedication, that he deserved this. He deserved him.

And he did.

After China Yuuri became a little emboldened by his medal and Viktor's display after the free skate they had both fought so hard for, that had almost taken everything. He initiated touches, he initiated kisses. He began to believe that there was something to like about himself, that he could maybe be allowed to live out a few of the many Viktor-centric fantasies he had imagined over the course of a decade. He still had a hard time understanding how he managed to get Viktor here, to give him the time of day (and so much more). The feeling came back so much stronger when he spied his framed Viktor picture cut from an official release, or the ruffled edges of his posters sticking out from under his bed.

Russia and the Rostelecom Cup seemed to arrive much faster than Yuuri had thought possible. There was an excitement he carried with him for it, an excitement he couldn't remember feeling at competition for a very long time. He had good programs, he had a medal, he had Viktor. He channelled his new self into his seduction, stronger than ever before, ready to show everyone how strong his hold on Viktor was, that they would never get him back without a fight. And he would fight tooth and nail, until there was nothing of him left. Viktor belonged to him, even as he could hardly bear to limit him by binding them together. Viktor was beautiful, transcendent, a genius and Yuuri was plain, dime-a-dozen, broken. He had Viktor for now, through some boon of fate, but he didn’t belong to Yuuri, not yet. He could ask for, but not demand his time and he was going to get a much of that time as he could scrounge for. 

Mari called, and the nightmares came spouting into their shared dream. Yuuri knew this nightmare, knew the ending and while Viktor spoke like he understood, he didn’t, he couldn’t, and Yuuri had to be the one to make this decision. Viktor didn’t know what it was like to not be there, no way to imagine what it felt like. He could spare him that pain, spare him the nightmare that Yuuri was remembering at full force: the tears that sprang up on him like true blue Hasetsu ninjas, striking when he was unguarded, his fortress walls burst open and defences weak; the guilt that stalked him for weeks, worst when he saw skates, he saw dog walkers, he saw himself in the mirror. Viktor could not be allowed to go through that. Yuuri would not accept it, and Viktor would accept his decision. This time he would do it right.

The free skate hurt.

It hurt to not live up to Viktor’s expectations, he could only be the best for his coach and he had shamed him, cutting it so close and almost cutting him free. It hurt to not know what Viktor had come back to – gone home to, Yuuri knew it was home for both of them now – there had been no news from Mari and Viktor was still travelling. It hurt not to have Viktor there after they had spent so long together as to almost fuse molecularly. They would make a singular homunculus. The absence was a physical presence of his own, one he was constantly aware of and kept niggling at the corner of his eyes and trying to make him snap his head, as though the object of his attention would be standing there, arms out for him. He was on edge, blinking at shadows and craving touch and sighing at the empty spot until he touched down in Japan, feeling like he was floating and completely apart, and then he was dashing, running in place, leaping and whole again. And he saw himself reflected back in perfect, impossibly ocean blue eyes. 

Home.

He bedded Viktor for the first time that night, both tired and aching from skating and pacing and both sitting curled and wishing for the time to pass faster. At first desperate closeness, tearing buttons free and mouths breathing their souls into each other. There were tear trails that glimmered in the dim light of the hotel table lamp, and long strings of syllables that sounded like nothing but meant everything. All the emptiness had to be made up for as quickly as possible, with scratching fingernails and grasping calves to keep them flush, crushing together as close as possible, closer. Quick motions, quick breaths.

After the frantic touches had cooled and they could breathe again, it was gentle and slow. It was tracing lines along muscle with the care of a cartographer, measuring distances and responses to be cross-referenced for the rest of their lives. It was cradled faces and gasping giggles and long stares, a steady unwinding and opening as they relaxed into each other’s hold; weepy sighs and trembling thighs. It was beautiful.

Every moment was spent together after that, as though trying to make up for the few hours apart. Woke, ate, skated, relaxed, slept together, day in day out until it seemed like the carefully choreographed routine was always a part of their lives. They learned each other’s bodies, and their hearts, and tried not to think too hard about their aging knees and the crick that snuck into Viktor’s back when he stood for too long. 

The flight to Barcelona was small touches, soft smiles and quiet excitement. He let his anxiety bubble to the surface when Viktor disappeared from his side, face down in the pillow as he tried to drown out the screaming in the back of his head that he should be able to handle this, that Viktor didn’t want to spend all of his time lurking around Yuuri when he had other, better things to do and the unease warred with the growing possessiveness, the urge to find Viktor and ensure his eyes never strayed again, to be watching him forever. The door opened eventually, years later, on a clingy Viktor and equally grabby Chris as they barrelled into him. Yuuri’s heart leapt and shuddered at the thought of them together, of their history and easy familiarity and he baulked at the scenes his imagination conjured of tangled bodies and Viktor screaming a name that wasn’t Yuuri, when Yuuri was still a face in the crowd, but never had a chance to dwell before there were kisses on his neck with too much stubble, and kisses on the dent where shoulder met chest with the correct amount of stubble and he was laughing and gasping and moaning.

They spoke about it after the Swiss had left, and decided against repeats. There had been too many moments where Yuuri had looked up into eyes that weren’t cyan blue, seen Viktor’s hands in blond hair, had felt a hardness in him that he couldn’t recognise from his maps. He could feel the tendrils of jealousy sneaking through his chest and around his organs, constricting tighter the more time he had with a clear mind. Viktor was his, and he didn’t share, not with anyone. Viktor had accepted it easily.

Yuuri made it through practice with his confidence intact, and with the chatter of his rink mates, his competitors, with all their varying degrees of familiarity he felt like all his claims to Viktor and to the gold medal may not have been just bluster. It finally felt real, and he could show the world what they could do together. 

Barcelona was beautiful, in the same ethereal, playful way that Viktor was; lights and bluster and ancient stories in graceful masonry. Yuuri found himself wrapped up in the atmosphere of it, wrapped up in Viktor as they struck poses, bustled through heaving shops and lingered in quiet alcoves stealing each other’s breath. He allowed himself a short moment of awe – what had he done to deserve of all Viktor? He was flawless even as he was flawed, bathed in the light of his smiles and carrying Yuuri along with him on his high. They got into a fight - not the first, not the last – and the simplicity and meaningless nature of it made his feet feel light with the domesticity of it. Petty and pointless and perfect

So he screwed his courage to the sticking place and with shaking hands he seized what he wanted. He took Viktor’s future for himself, and gave his own in turn. 

When they made it back to their room, away from the prying eyes of friends and questions from his family, the universe contracted until there was nothing beyond the room, nothing beyond Yuuri and glittering blue eyes in china pale skin. Yuuri made sure to be strong and gentle, trying to inscribe his name deep within Viktor, while Viktor made sure to leave his marks in intricate patterns on Yuuri’s skin, tracing the outline of mesh panels.

He thought he had it, that it was all going to be perfect and he would skate into the sunset, bedecked in gold and cradling his prize. But he hadn’t made it, had screwed his landing, had lost the eroticism he had spent a year trying to perfect; a year he spent exploring and releasing himself for the first time in his lonely, miserable, nervous life. He couldn’t even properly memorialise the new sides of himself, or tell the story of himself and Viktor from the banquet last year, cripplingly embarrassing and completely out of character as it was. Incapable of describing his own history, even if scraps of dreams were all that he had to remember it by.

He was alone as he fended off the wolf pack waiting for scraps rinkside, crumbs of his crumbling psyche as he talked through his mistake, his tears.

Viktor was watching and smiling at the other skaters. Not at him. Why would he? They were more graceful, more promising, just _more_. Viktor should be out there, dancing with them and pouring the splendour of his beauty out on the ice as a liquid to freeze and gaze at, as he had poured himself into Yuuri’s heart until it had overflowed. Yuuri should be watching him from the side lines, as he always had. The end had arrived and he could feel it sneaking into him and around his lungs as he watched the scores come in and he couldn’t even bring himself to properly congratulate Phitchit, the words ringing hollow with his own disappointment and making them sound condescending. He excused himself before he could make it worse, feeling himself approach the event horizon. The silence in which they ate, together but apart, contrasted so strongly with the racket of the night before, the constant gap between them a screaming mockery of the intimacy of the night before.

There was nothing for it, he had to cut Viktor free before their relationship strained and tore and broke under the weight of the disappointment and missed opportunities, leaving both of them to deal with their own bloody stump. He could try and live without Viktor, knowing that he had changed and shaped him in the same way that he had let himself be changed and shaped. He had made his mark, and continue on in the knowledge that Viktor was back where he belonged, that he stepped aside for the right reasons.

Viktor’s tears were impossible, his face still perfect as he broke all the natural laws because he couldn’t cry – it made no sense, he wasn’t built for it. He was getting his career back and the chance to drop association with a second-rate skater and prove himself now. The thought, snuggled deep in his self-loathing and bitterness, that it was because he would be separated from Yuuri, felt warm and he reached towards it through the maelstrom. He wondered whether their shared gold bands would still have any meaning once their business was done; would Viktor wait for him until his own retirement? Would he want him after Yuuri spends his own retirement becalmed, dead in the water and waiting for a fresh breeze to save him again? A sudden motion, a hand on his shoulder, shouted words that shuttle between them, impacting nothing.

They slept apart for the first time since Rostelecom, not angry enough to move the beds and too angry for contact.

The morning was strained and quiet: Yuuri summoned up his resolution from the day before and told himself that Viktor would understand in time that his selfishness was selflessness and he wanted to see him live up to his potential like they had worked to bring himself here. Eating together was tensing for sudden jumps at small movements, warmup was torn away glances and aborted sentences released as sighs and the pre-skate talk was a dam breaking, the trickle of redemption that had threatened them all day succeeding at last, immersing them back in the comfortable joy of each other until they had to break the surface or drown. 

And he tried to channel all of that joy, love, sacrifice and possessiveness into his skating, so the world could see the lasting marks of their relationship. They might not be able to see the physical signs, but Viktor was there in the emotions and the skills, ghosting beside him as he spun and jumped. He wanted to fight for him, but it wasn’t a fight he could win without damaging the prize. And the world saw, and responded with cheers and compassion and celebration and the highest score of his career, right as it ended. 

Yuuri jittered his way through the interviews, stood in awe as Yurio stormed through his FS, blinked, and was coming off the podium with a silver medal.

A silver.

That wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t let a silver be the culmination of his time with Viktor, and couldn’t let the world think that was the best Viktor could do as a coach. What did their new rings mean if he only had a silver? Unsurprisingly, Viktor thought the same and surprisingly didn’t seem to hold Yuuri’s earlier retirement proclamation against him. Together they were going to show everyone, make all the doubters eat their words. Maybe even make their biggest detractor rethink his stance, but then again he had never been very good at convincing himself of anything.

He wore his medal that night, and they both admired how it caught the moonlight as it moved, sending diffuse and scattered beams around the room and across each other. It’s the wrong colour, but there’s time to change silver to gold.

The exhibition is terrifying, tender, everything he had never dared to dream of as a child – or as an adult. Hours of practice were nothing to prepare him for the thrill of Viktor emerging from the darkness towards him. His gold brocade glinting and tails billowing he was every inch the fairy tale prince coming to save him from his loneliness. For a fleeting moment he wondered if Viktor felt the same way too. When the music ended, and Yuuri has held high in an embrace, his face inches from Viktor, he had never felt more safe or loved. And it was all his.

The banquet was a rowdy affair, but within the bounds of good taste this time. The news of returns, debuts, almost-retirements, they all had a catalytic effect on the gossipy nature of the event. There were press photos, selfies, the one flute to down with the embarrassment of the medallists’ toast before back to orange juice, friends to congratulate (Phichit was having the time of his life, and expecting a pole), many, many sponsors to woo, the public to woo, a World Champion to woo and it passed so quickly. Too quickly. 

Back to Hasetsu, to try and figure out what the future held for them.

As it turned out, the future involved moving country, away again from his family and friends and teeny tiny support network, but it was a move with Viktor, who was the strongest support he had ever had. The Russian rink was beautiful, the facilities gleaming, the people peerless, and it was a much stronger culture shock than he had ever had before. There were moments he was lost, back in the black pit of his mind and staring up at the light, but every time Viktor would find him and sit with him, the soothing circles on his back and crooning words in his ear a lifeline he grasped with both hands and let pull him back up. They were slowly getting better at dealing with each other, and he found that with the safety net underneath him he acclimatised fast, getting to know the other skaters and settling into the new city. The new life. His and Viktor’s.

Time passed, and they celebrated Yuuri’s gold medal ceremony with a ceremony of their own, all the GPF podium in attendance once Yurio hissed his acceptance of being Viktor’s best man. There had been arguments between Yuuri’s small and closest only and Viktor’s large and flamboyant plans but they balanced out somehow, and most were surprised at Yuuri’s insistence on press access; If he was going to marry Viktor Nikiforov the world was going to know who was taking him off the market. They both cried.

Viktor retired the year after his comeback season, having spent two years rotating through podium positions with the Yuris and finishing on a gold, on the top of the Worlds. Yuuri sent two more GPF medals to the cabinets of Yu-Topia and then bowed out as well.

Married life seemed to suit them, there was a blissful warmth stretched tight between them when they woke up to run their glinting fingers over sleep-soft skin. They drank each other in every waking hour, and into the calmed dozing of the gloaming hours, but never feeling full, always thirsty. Yuuri felt feverish whenever they were alone together, and he succumbed more every day as he discovered new aspects to Viktor’s shifting, opalescent personality, and found new angles to ratchet up the pressure. In turn he watched with pride the way Viktor’s face would light up when he defied expectations, eyes shimmering and smile widening to encompass his entire face. The first time Yuuri followed his family in calling him Vicchan he thought he would melt from the warmth echoed back at him.

The heat eventually faded, leaving them in a happy haze where they languished in a years-long petite mort, relaxed and happy and together. They are comfortable together; know the eddies and currents of their personalities, the borders and valleys of their bodies. Their careers are growing together, the world’s best teaching the best the world has to offer, and they watch Yurio graduate under their watch into an unparalleled beacon to so many to come after him as Vicchan had been to Yuuri, and saw him sand down his edges as he became more content with the world and his place in it.

Makkachin passed quietly in their arms in the clean and quiet of their local clinic. He had been slowing, winding down for a long time, and the stiff walks and wheezing breaths had finally caught him. Yuuri’s heart broke for Makkachin and for his husband as he watched the grief tear through the paper-thin armour over his heart, and rend him open. He was so grateful they could be there, that the final straw hadn’t happened while they were away at a tournament. He could be saved again from the pain of distance that Yuuri had been forced to deal with. They could heal together.

They settle from comfort into familiarity as they become more and more used to each other, understanding and ease slowly turning to predictability. Vicchan is forgetful and passive aggressive, Yuuri is nagging and neurotic. The love is still there though, and it guides them through a tricky move back to Hasetsu when Yuuri is asked if he can help Mari with Yu-Topia now that his parents are retiring. 

Being back in Hasetsu helps them come back together. They relive old memories at the Ice Castle, and at the beach, in the banquet room they claimed permanently. They move over a few of their students, and begin to gather in more new skaters, but Yuuri can’t take as many lessons and still help out at the inn and they spend more and more of their time apart. 

The time alone begins to unravel them, and Yuuri can feel it. The rose-tinting of rediscovering each other along with Hasetsu fades into bickering and boredom. Anxiety begins to sneak back into his life, peeking into his mind to pick at the fraying edges of his confidence.

Viktor likes surprises, and Yuuri knows it. The way Vicchan’s eyes lit up whenever he was shocked was his favourite sight, but it had been a while since he had seen it. His actions were expected, and they hated each other for it. Yuuri hated that their time together that inured Vicchan to him, and that he was unable to work harder to be unpredictable, that he’d lost his inspiration.

Viktor is a genius, and Yuuri knows it. A genius needs a muse, an inspiration. What could Yuuri possibly inspire; familiar and off the ice, and his insecurity smuggling extra pounds onto his hips. Yuuri is tired, a part time manager at a hot spring resort while Vicchan is still a living legend, constantly taking on new projects from modelling to writing to acting cameos. There are times when Vicchan is away for a shoot, and Yuuri pulls the blanket over his head in the silent dark of his childhood room and wonders if the gap between them is larger than it was when he was always a camera removed from his hero.

Viktor cheats.

Yuuri takes a while to figure it out. He doesn’t know if this student was the first, or if he would be the last. The student reminds him of himself, and that is so much worse. He doesn’t know much, and he doesn’t want to learn, he wants to run until his lungs give out and then scream until his heart shatters into pieces. He plays through every moment they’ve been together, a highlights reel that corrupts and putrefies as he plays it, and suddenly he feels like he’s drowning and he has to breathe in, breathe out, his hands making shuddering fists pressing tracks up and down his thighs. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, that he was never good enough and Vicchan took pity on him all those years ago. Yuuri was pathetic, second-rate, buffed to be presentable in public and not much more. He could have been lying all this time, but no, that wasn’t Vicchan. He was impulsive, he was flighty but he had belonged to Yuuri. Did he still? Did he not want to belong to Yuuri anymore? He felt the beginnings of white hot rage then, the vein of possessiveness he thought long extinguished coming blazing back into life.

Vicchan was his. There was no debate about it. He had fought for him across long months and years. He had covered himself in bruises and scars as proof of his devotion to Vicchan, and to his skating. Vicchan was living in Yuuri’s parents’ house, wearing his ring and waking up in his bed. He couldn’t let him ruin all that, to desecrate their years of happiness with his indecency and unfaithfulness. 

He would rather lose him forever than let him destroy their years of marriage.

He thinks back to what it was like to lose the first Vicchan, of the crushing defeat their separation had instilled, compared to the ease with which he had slipped into the grief of losing Makkachin. This time he could do it better. He could be there to hold him as he left. He could arrange the funeral, construct the shrine and console those around them far better from by their side. He could mourn, first for their lives together and secondly for his husband. He’d protect himself from the pain of seeing this happen again and again as Vicchan tires and bores himself with these dalliances.

They had a truck at the inn for deliveries, it wouldn’t take much; a hit-and-run, a burned out wreck to be found days later.

It is only fitting that Yuuri would lose both Vicchans the same way.

**Author's Note:**

> +++Out of Cheese Error. Redo From Start.+++


End file.
